3 days in December
Due by popular demand from students, friends & londoners, here I share the English version of 3 DÍAS DE DICIEMBRE from December 2010. Dedicated to Kitty and all the wonderful people I met during my London experience. Enjoy!
Wednesday, 15th December. I get home around eight, as usual. I log into Facebook and open the chat to see who’s available to talk. My flatmates are already in their rooms and, as always, I have to eat dinner alone with the whole house silent around me. Just when it’s time to go to bed, some news is posted on the wall:
“Paul McCartney will play an intimate concert at the 100 Club next Friday the 17th at 1 p.m. It is part of a campaign to save the century-old venue* from being demolished. Tickets on sale on the 16th at 10 a.m., online only, for a single price of £60.”
My eyes light up! I see that it’s in London and look up where this “100 Club” is located. Yes! Right in the middle of Oxford Street! I can’t believe it! Just before going to bed I make the necessary preparations for the next morning and pack my laptop so I can follow the ticket sale at 10 a.m.
Thursday, 16th December. I get up early, as always. The sun rises very early and the lack of blinds means I wake up without needing an alarm. Breakfast is cereal and milk with honey. It’s very cold and the forecast says there’ll be snow by the end of the week. I take the number 13 bus, as usual, which takes me to Oxford Street. That morning, for once, I locate the 100 Club in the very heart of the city, just before Tottenham Court Road, very close to St. Giles, the school where I’m taking the teacher training course. Couldn’t be better! I walk into a Starbucks across from the concert venue* and get online right at 10 a.m. But no luck—my connection freezes several times, and I can’t access the website. When I finally manage to get in, a message tells me that the tickets are sold out. What? Not even ten minutes have passed! I leave Starbucks, cross the street, and enter the building at 100 Oxford Street. In the entryway, I run into someone who turns out to be the owner. I ask him about the tickets and he says there are none left: “No tickets available. No chance, so sorry…” I stay for a while inspecting the lower floor where the concert will take place, and I’m surprised by how small it is. Just as I’m about to leave, the postman comes into the building and literally throws a big bundle of letters at my chest. I tell him I’m not from there and he leaves. I look at the letters, thinking maybe one of them might contain a ticket, and I hide the bundle inside my jacket. Fully aware of the craziness of what I’m doing, I think there might be a back alley. In fact, there is—the typical London 'emergency exit'. I go down the stairs and walk into the genuine British Venue*, playing dumb. Its small space surprises me, with red walls covered in photographs. I admire the celebrities who have played at the venue* throughout its long history, from amateur performers to the Stones, Eric Clapton, and I realize those walls were living witnesses to the Punk explosion in the city in the late 70s with The Clash. Then a girl, very politely, asks me to leave. I go to class as usual until four. Then I do the second crazy thing of the day. I think it might be worth stopping by the back of the 100 Club to see if anything is going on. It’s practically dark, freezing cold, and sleet is starting to fall. Standing in front of a nearby doorway, I think I hear Paul. Indeed, it’s the sound check, and I’m sure I hear his voice. Even though I try to go in and walk down the stairs, in the end I don’t have the courage. The next day I confirm it really was him. I wait there for maybe a couple of hours until I can’t take it anymore. I’m completely frozen! I go back home and lock myself in my room. I sit on the floor on top of the carpet, right by the radiator, and start opening the letters one by one. Nothing! I close them again, thinking of putting them back in the mailbox.
The big day arrives! Friday 17th December. 2010.
I wake up around 6 a.m. The truth is I’ve always liked getting up early, and that morning I did it in a very special way, like on great occasions. I open my Facebook account and write: “one sweet dream, came true today…” I think about wandering around the venue to try to get Paul’s autograph. The sun still hasn’t risen and the temperature outside is about five degrees below zero. Quick shower, breakfast of cereal and milk with honey, and I get ready to face the cold: three sweaters, two pairs of trousers, boots, jacket, scarf, gloves, and hat! I take a couple of vinyl records with me: Abbey Road, a 1969 first British pressing with a rare misprint, and McCartney, another very early 1970 British first edition (the one responsible for my passion for photography). I also pack the sheet music of Dear Prudence with the photos from the White Album that I 'acquired' at a Camden Town market, and my new professional Nikon D700 DSLR with a 24 mm wide-angle lens. That Friday, the teachers from our teacher training group were graduating, and it was also the last day before the Christmas holidays, so a celebration was guaranteed. I’d been flirting with one of them, Kitty Woo, for weeks, and this was my last chance. But back to that morning. I leave the house early and take the number 13 bus, as usual, which drops me at Oxford Circus. As always, I arrive far too early, but I notice I’m not the only crazy one. At the front of the queue, two girls have been waiting since six in the morning, stoically enduring a real cold wave. Two others, also without tickets (like me), wait and hope for a bit of luck. I enjoy that moment of waiting — not just because I can chat in English with people from all over, but because we all share the same idol. It starts snowing in London and the cold doesn’t let up. I’ve rarely been so cold in my life. The security setup begins, and the 'no-ticket people' are separated from the rest. I decide to take a look at the back of the venue, where several journalists are waiting for Paul’s arrival. After a long wait, a quiet London street suddenly turns into a small media circus, with people everywhere and the traffic briefly stopped. And yes — the moment of maximum excitement arrives when a grey high-end car pulls up and Paul waves from the front passenger seat, camera flashes going wild. After the rush of excitement, reality hits me: there’s not much more I can do. I make the crucial decision to head back to the entrance of the venue* at 100 Oxford Street. It was a last-minute decision, honestly, because I was about to leave and drown my sorrows somewhere in Soho. People start going into the tiny venue*. At a very unusual hour — “Packed Lunchtime Concert,” the poster says — but I like it. A concert at 1 p.m.! I watch in disbelief as all chances of getting in seem to disappear. The concert begins, and the opening blast of Magical Mystery Tour booms loudly, mixing with Oxford Circus traffic. A deep, hard-to-describe disappointment seeps into me. Three of us remain outside the door, waiting for… I don’t know what… and then the big moment arrives! One of the bouncers pulls three red wristbands out of his pocket and, in barely intelligible English, asks for £60 to get in. One of the guys with me whispers an unforgettable “fucking bastards” that I’ll remember all my life. That was the last wristband left, and thanks to his refusal, I was able to enter the venue*, pulling out the £60 I had ready in my pocket. No one searched me — things were a bit chaotic — I could have carried a weapon and no one would’ve noticed. I walk through the hallway and down the stairs, stumbling in the dark, just as the first notes of Jet start playing. Overcome with excitement, I spot two girls standing in a corner in the dim light, and without thinking, I kiss one of them! I still have doubts about whether it was a man or a woman. I step into the venue and my first impression is one of suffocation — it’s about 30 degrees warmer than outside, but I don’t care. I push here and there, and before I know it, I’m standing right in front of the stage. A huge pillar blocks my view of Paul, but at first glance I notice a black grand piano, and I figure that when he sits at the piano, that will be my moment of ultimate glory. I start feeling really hot under all those layers, but it doesn’t matter. I sing and shout like never before, fully aware that this is my big moment. My head fills with countless memories, moments of my life with this music as the soundtrack, and so many people who would surely give anything to be where I am. Deep in my most private inner world, I feel lucky to be living this moment. I take in the tiny stage with all the amps in plain sight. Truly impressive! As I suspected, the piano moment arrives. Indeed, he sits right in front of me and plays The Long and Winding Road, The Beatles’ final single from 1970 and one of my favourites, and Maybe I’m Amazed, the standout track from his 1970 debut solo album — one of the songs of my life, whose album cover is responsible for my passion for photography. I realise I have the original vinyl hanging over my shoulder, and I show Paul the back cover. He looks at it with a mix of surprise and nostalgia. He moves back to the centre of the stage, and this time I manage to get a better spot. I realise that everything is weighing on me and that my moment of absolute fulfilment has passed, so I decide to change perspective. I move toward one of the bars, drop everything I’m carrying (which is no small amount), and order myself a good English pint. I enjoy the typical British venue*, with people screaming hysterically and that slightly rotten, damp smell so characteristic of London. We reach the end before the encores… Band on the Run, Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da (which sounds phenomenal). I call my mother during the final choruses of Hey Jude. I had to share that unforgettable moment with someone, and I thought of my mother. On the return, he performs Yesterday, a deeply emotional moment. A sepulchral silence falls over the room. Even though it is the most covered song in the history of music, it has never particularly moved me. But I realise it is another British anthem, and hearing it does stir me deeply. I move to one corner to get a better spot before the end and meet a Spanish couple just as Get Back starts playing. In that corner, I take out my camera and shoot a couple of wide-angle photos — exactly the perfect perspective with the stage, the audience, and the tiny distance between them. I thought that if security saw me, they’d confiscate the camera, so I didn’t take more. Just that unforgettable shot. At that moment, behind me, I spot Ron Wood, and I shout at him as if he were far away — though the truth is he was very close. I think I scared him. The electrifying finale, The End, closes the circle with Abbey Road. Finally, I try to get an autograph. The couple makes a little space for me in the front row. Paul grabs my right hand to sign the sheet music, but the barriers give way from the pressure of the crowd, and he quickly leaves. A real shame! I leave the venue* around 4 p.m., under a radiant sunny sky, and head straight to The Swan pub, just behind the school in Russell Square, where the graduation party has already begun. Although the hour might seem odd, in England it’s very common to leave class or work early on Friday afternoons and head straight to the nearest pub. A lovely 'British postcard' I’ll always carry with me. Still overflowing with excitement from what I had just experienced, I tell my teachers and classmates what had happened only minutes earlier. My excitement still obvious, I have a couple of pints, and the alcohol hits me quickly. I feel euphoric, and my English flows effortlessly. In the downstairs bathroom of the pub, I run into Kitty, one of the teachers — a gorgeous Welsh girl with green eyes and chestnut hair that turned reddish in the sun, a very common look in Great Britain. She’s wearing a green Scottish wool jumper very similar to one I owned — and still have. Those jumpers became our symbol and, in a way, our main bond. In the basement, after telling her everything that had happened we end up kissing.
Some of the protagonists of this story
*Venue: Rehearsal and concert space for beginner & amateur bands.
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